Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets, and writes poetry—all hoping to create home. He and his wife live beside a dilapidating orchard in Indiana, where he tries to shape dead trees into playhouses for his four boys. His poetry has been featured in River Mouth Review, Club Plum Journal and Ekstasis Magazine.
and I will tell you about the yellow spider hiding, silent
as sickness, behind basketballs in the garage. How iris stems
bent, half-alive. The spreading purple sunrise.
I will tell you of when you were ill, of home,
its shelter and shadow. The heat spilled
from summer, I tried to clorox its last coughs.
Light flipped quickly, on and off, chickadees sung
weakly, the mums uncovered, no frost. I didn’t know
what to need. I couldn’t taste morning coffee,
and there was still warmth under our bare feet. So dirty,
they couldn’t be washed, we had to wait
for weeks until the smudges could wipe away.